


The Bumble Bust

by MythicalViper



Series: Rhythmstar - Legion of Heroes [1]
Category: RhythmStar: Music Adventure (Video Game)
Genre: Domestic, Humor, Musicians, Rimsky is a savage, but Paganini deserves it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 06:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20830988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MythicalViper/pseuds/MythicalViper
Summary: Paganini is a vampire. Rimsky is a bumble bee. One is born to be a royal, the other a servant.It's obvious that Paganini's going to be taking advantage of this. The only question is how far he's going to be allowed to push the bumblebee before Rimsky snaps.





	The Bumble Bust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RubieKanary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubieKanary/gifts).

There were some downsides to having been driven off your home planet in the wake of the Dust attacks. For one, Paganini missed the landscape of his planet, what with its dark skies and twisted trees. For another - and this one was of greater concern - there were no servants in the legion to answer to his whims. Sure, he’d willingly allied himself with the other heroes, but Paganini was a vampire, and vampires had undead servants to do the little things for them. Anything else was simply unnatural, but unfortunately, the other members of the legion didn’t seem to feel that way, and so for the first time in his very long life, Paganini found himself with the heavy task of having to do everything himself. 

Disgraceful. 

It was frustrating, but it wasn’t like Paganini could ask them to understand vampire culture when there was so much happening beside his own internal conflict. He’d bite one of the other members and turn them if he could, but he had a feeling that wouldn’t turn out well for him, what with the other heroes and their need to be heroic and oppose anything that was “wrong,” which probably included technically killing a comrade and bringing them back to life. Still, he was tempted. And he probably would’ve followed through with the impulse if he hadn’t noticed a very convenient thing:

One of the members of the legion was a worker honey bee.

Paganini didn’t know much about Rimsky’s home planet and culture, but he did know a few things about bees, and he knew that worker bees devoted their entire lives to serving their queen, answering her every beck and call. It was a natural instinct, a sense of duty, and most importantly, what they were born for. Rimsky might not be on his home planet anymore, but that meant nothing when it came to his instincts. He had been created to serve royalty. Paganini, while definitely not a queen bee, was royalty. It was a perfect fit.

All he had to do was harness that instinct, and Paganini was sure Rimsky’s worker bee tendency would get the rest of the job done. It was more ethical than biting someone (from the perspective of others, anyway) and even better - Rimsky probably wouldn’t even notice, which meant Paganini could get away with it. 

Of course, not being a queen bee and not knowing much about queen bees, Paganini couldn’t be absolutely sure as to how to get Rimsky to do his things for him, but he was sure he could figure it out.

After all, he was royalty. And royalty didn’t do things for themselves.

*

“That went well.”

Rimsky stared at Rachmaninoff, his antennae twitching. “Were you on the same border patrol as I was?”

“Well, to be fair,” Beethoven Jr. said from his left, “Nothing blew up, and no Dusts attacked. It could’ve been a lot worse.”

Rimsky shook his head. “You’re both delusional.”

“We’ve accepted that crazy is the new normal in our lives,” Beethoven Jr. said as she spun a baton in one hand. “You, on the other hand, seem to think you can wake up from this nightmare if you try hard enough.”

“Well, you can’t fault me for trying,” Rimsky grumbled as they entered the cafeteria. A sweet-smelling aroma hung heavy in the air, like honey or fruit, and he fluffed up his collar as he headed for the lunch line, immediately interested. “What’s that smell?”

“Fruit cup,” Rachmaninoff reported, toying with the golden laurels in his head. “I guess they’re making us eat healthy.”

“Yeah, pretty sure we’re gonna die of high cholesterol or rickets before the Dusts can do us in,” Beethoven Jr. chuckled as she picked up a plate. She glanced up. “Oh, there you are, Paganini. How’s the violin?”

Paganini glided past, resplendent in a black cloak and ruby-encrusted golden chains that matched his scarlet eyes. “Just fine,” he replied carelessly in an arched tone. There was something different about him, about the way he was moving, was speaking, but Rimsky was too hungry to care. As the vampire brushed past them, a handkerchief fluttered from the folds of his cloak, and Rimsky handed it back to him before he could lose it. Paganini barely looked at him, but he took the handkerchief and flicked it back into a hidden pocket. 

“Huh. That was weird,” Rachmaninoff commented as Paganini walked off. “Why’s he even in the cafeteria? Does he even need to eat?”

Rimsky didn’t care much. He just headed for the lunch line as fast as possible.

In retrospect, he should’ve been more careful. Because as he headed towards the food like a starving tick, he didn’t catch Paganini’s sharp, ominous smile.

*

“Why the hell are you here?”

Beethoven Jr. stared across the lunch table at Paganini, unamused. The vampire was planning something. She knew that much. She just didn’t know what, and she briefly considered hitting him over the head with her baton and asking later. But that would probably get her into trouble, and she didn’t want to risk it.

Okay, fine, she did kind of want to risk it. It’d been a hell of a day and she needed some bashing to relieve the stress.

Paganini took a neat bite of his steak, and what the heck, the guy was actually using a fork and a knife, who did that? “Why, am I not allowed to join my team?” he asked, dabbing the edge of his mouth with a napkin and putting it on the table. “Because, from what I remember, we’re still on the same team.” 

Beethoven Jr. looked at Rachmaninoff. Rachmaninoff looked at Rimsky, who was still tackling his food happily. He looked back and shrugged. He had no idea what Paganini was doing, either. Beethoven Jr. would really like to give the vampire a good smack, but he hadn’t actually done anything yet, so that would be a problem.

“No, we’re just-” she waved a hand. “You usually don’t join us, and you usually drink blood, not eat food, and where the hell did you even get steak? That wasn’t on the menu. How come you get steak and we get-” she gave her food a serious amount of side-eye. “Fruit cups?”

“Trade secret,” Paganini replied, setting his fork and knife down. As he did, his napkin floated off the table, and Rimsky caught it before it could hit the ground and returned it, neatly folded. Paganini didn’t seem to notice. “Besides, it is nice to bond with the team from time to time, is it not?”

Beethoven Jr.’s eyes narrowed a bit more. “You’re acting… weird.”

“Oh? How so?” He sat back, holding out a hand as if to reach for his wine glass - where the hell had that guy gotten wine? - and Rimsky pushed it within reach. “Is it so suspicious an idea that I would like to socialize with my teammates? To the point where I would even come to such a place-” he waved a languid hand at the general chaos of the cafeteria and took a sip of his drink. “-just so I can accompany you?”

Beethoven Jr. stared at him. “Yes?” she replied, because he seemed to be waiting for an answer. “It’s not like you to be cuddly.”

“How dare you,” Paganini answered lightly, setting his now-empty glass down, and yeah, there was definitely something off about that, but Beethoven Jr. couldn’t figure out for the life of her what that was. Rimsky refilled Paganini’s cup without asking and continued eating. “Well, I suppose I’ll be off now. Do the laundry later,” he added, before walking off.

There was a beat of silence. Beethoven Jr. looked at Rachmaninoff, who shrugged.

“Vamps,” he said, disdain in the words. “Maybe he’s just having a good day or something? I don’t know. Not my expertise.”

“Something’s wrong here,” Beethoven Jr. murmured. “Something feels… off…”

Rimsky finished his food in a hurry and got up with his lunch tray, picking up the steak plate and wine glass as well. “Well, I’m off!” he said cheerily. “See you guys later?”

“We have a sparring session later,” Rachmaninoff told him. “Be there.”

“Okay!” he hurried off. Beethoven Jr. raised a hand to stop him.

“Wait,” she said. “Your schedule’s clear for the rest of the day. Where are you going?”

“Oh? I have some laundry to do, that’s all,” he replied, and Beethoven Jr. couldn’t find anything wrong with that. “I’ll see you two later!”

He hustled away. Beethoven Jr. looked at Rachmaninoff again.

“I know I’m his best friend, but bees are weird sometimes,” Rachmaninoff replied, holding his hands up. “I got nothing.”

Beethoven Jr. got to her feet. “Keep an eye on him.”

“Which one?”

“Both of them.” she headed out of the cafeteria. Something was amiss. She just wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.

*

Rachmaninoff knew something was wrong when he saw Rimsky emerge from the laundry room with a basket overflowing with clothes, because unless his best friend was going through a goth phase, black and red were definitely not Rimsky’s colors.

“Rimsky?” he asked as the worker bee bustled cheerfully down the hallway. “Uh, are those Paganini’s clothes?”

“Huh?” Rimsky glanced at his basket. “Yeah! I picked them up earlier.”

Rachmaninoff nodded. “Why?”

“Oh, because I had to do the laundry,” he replied, which wasn’t an answer, but Rachmaninoff was used to Rimsky being vague. He figured that Rimsky had offered to help Paganini with his clothes or something, which was… strange. But it also wasn’t too out of habit for the worker bee. Rachmaninoff knew Rimsky liked helping others out. “Is it time for sparring already?”

“No, I just came to check up on you,” Rachmaninoff answered, following his friend down the hallway. “Beethoven Jr. thinks there’s something wrong with Paganini.”

“There is?” Rimsky’s antennae went straight and he took a turn into a hallway that didn’t lead to his sleeping quarters. “Did he get hurt or something? Or was it the last skirmish with a Dust? I thought it was hard for him to get hurt, being a vamp and all.”

“No, it’s not that…” Rachmaninoff eyed his friend as they stopped in front of Paganini’s door. The worker bee gave the wooden door a perfunctory knock before slipping inside. Rachmaninoff followed curiously. Paganini didn’t appear to be in at the moment, which was fine by the wind mage, but something definitely felt amiss as Rimsky filed away Paganini’s neatly folded clothes, dusted the corners, and made his bed.

“Uh, Rimsky?” Rachmaninoff frowned at him. “Why are you doing that? It’s his room.”

“Because… it’s messy?” Rimsky replied with a twitch of his right antennae, a sign that he was confused. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Do you usually clean every room you enter?” Rachmaninoff asked as Rimsky brought out a bucket from hell-knows-where and stuck a mop in it. “I mean, I knew you were a busy bee, but this kind of cleaning isn’t really like you?”

“But…” Rimsky twitched his antennae and blinked, looking puzzled. “It’s messy, so…”

They stared at each other for a few seconds, and Rachmaninoff made up his mind that the mind of a bee was a mystery wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a mystery. Shaking his head, he headed for the door.

“Well… don’t spend too long,” Rachmaninoff reminded him. “We’ve got sparring practice.”

“Okay!” Rimsky went back to scrubbing the floor, looking so happy that Rachmaninoff really didn’t have the heart to tell him that, no, he didn’t need to be cleaning a vampire’s floor, that was just unprofessional for a hero.

Rimsky’s strange habits aside, Rachmaninoff needed to figure out what Paganini was up to, and what the vampire’s scheming had to do with his friend’s new favorite hobby of scrubbing floors. He had a feeling that it wasn’t going to be pleasant, but again, most things regarding the vampire wasn’t.

*

“Did you get the paperwork I wanted?”

“Yup,” Rimsky said cheerfully as he handed Paganini the stack of papers before returning to his task of ironing the vampire’s clothes. He enjoyed the smooth sliding of the hot iron over the wrinkled fabric, and busied himself with quickly and neatly folding the clothes after. “Anything else you need?”

“The curtains are too dusty. They’re not holding out the light well enough,” Paganini responded languidly from his recline on his scarlet sofa. “I want them dusted and pressed. Fix any tears you find, too. I can’t stand the light.”

“Sure,” Rimsky folded the final cloak and tucked it away in the dresser. “Are you hungry?” he asked as he saw the vampire lick his lips, a clear sign of hunger. “I can get you blood from the infirmary.”

Paganini’s thin lips twitched. “Whatever,” he said, which Rimsky assumed was a yes. “Do it quickly. I’m tired. And get a tub of hot water while you’re at it, I want to wash my feet.”

“Sure,” Rimsky answered, and hustled outside, grabbing a tub as he went. Time was of the essence, he wasn’t sure how long the vampire hadn’t consumed blood, and he knew that Paganini couldn’t subsist off of regular food alone. After grabbing a blood pack from the infirmary, he stopped by the kitchen for herbs that could serve as bath salts. Of course, they were still far from the real thing, and Rimsky quietly apologized to Paganini for making him have to wash his feet with such a substandard remedy.

“Rimsky!” The worker bee’s head came up as Rachmaninoff came marching down the hall. The wind mage didn’t look too surprised by the tub, herbs, and blood pack. Then again, he wasn’t fazed by much, which would explain how he’d survive as Rimsky’s friend for so long. “Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for you for half an hour.”

“Half an hour?” Rimsky then remembered that they had a sparring session scheduled. His antennae went up. “I’m so sorry. I completely forgot.”

“How could you forget? You’re not the type to do that,” Rachmaninoff fell into step beside him. He frowned at the blood pack, then at the multitude of things Rimsky was carrying. “Are those for Paganini?”

“Yeah,” Rimsky replied. “Just give me twenty minutes. I promise I’ll meet you in the gym!”

Rachmaninoff seemed suspicious, though Rimsky couldn’t imagine why. “You’re being oddly nice to Paganini these days,” he said with a slight frown. “Is he blackmailing you or something?”

“Huh?” Rimsky blinked at him. “Of course not. What do you mean?” he was just helping out like always, wasn’t he? There wasn’t anything wrong with cleaning Paganini’s room or ironing his clothes or grabbing blood for him, right?

“Nothing,” Rachmaninoff narrowed his eyes as they got to Paganini’s room. Paganini was still reclining on his couch, the picture perfect image of a vampire royal. Rachmaninoff stared at the vampire while Rimsky quickly found a cup to put the blood in, and started scenting the water. The wind mage glanced at Paganini gilded clothes, then at his elegant posture. The vampire simply seemed amused, and Rimsky wanted to tell Rachmaninoff that the eyes of lowering beings like themselves didn’t deserve to look at him.

“Something wrong?” Paganini asked loftily.

Rachmaninoff crossed his arms. “There’s something off with how you’ve been acting today.”

“Oh, and what is it, pray tell?” Paganini mused, taking a sip from the wine cup Rimsky offered him. “As far as I’m concerned, everything is perfectly fine, thank you.” Rimsky nudged the tub closer to Paganini’s feet, and the vampire slipped his feet in, allowing Rimsky to massage them. Rachmaninoff stared from the doorway.

“Rimsky.”

“Rach, I’m working,” Rimsky reminded him. Rachmaninoff should know better than to talk to him, especially in front of Paganini and during a sacred event such as feet washing! “We can talk later, okay?”

“Paganini, you vile, accursed little-” Rachmaninoff couldn’t seem to continue with the insults. “What did you do? Brainwashing? Hypnotism?”

“Don’t accuse him of that! It’s not like you to be so suspicious,” Rimsky protested, a little hurt on the behalf of Paganini. “I’m just doing what I’ve always been doing!”

There was a pause as vampire and wind mage glared each other down. Then, there was a light laugh.

“Oh, so that’s what’s happening,” Beethoven Jr. said from the doorway, her baton twirling in one hand. Her eyes narrowed. “Paganini, I will end your entire goddamn career.”

“What’s going on with both of you?” Rimsky didn’t understand. “Why are you being so rude to Paganini?”

Beethoven Jr. spared him a look, then a smile. “Rimsky. Close your eyes.”

“Uh?” Rimsky did as he was told. “But I can’t wash his feet like this…”

“Think back to all your experiences with Paganini,” Beethoven Jr. said, and Rimsky obeyed. “Now, think about it. Would you wash the feet of one of your teammates like this? Or iron their clothes? Or get them food?”

“Well, I mean-” with his eyes closed, Rimsky could neither see Paganini’s royal attire and posture. He thought back to his time with the vampire and couldn’t figure out why Beethoven Jr. and Rachmaninoff thought he was acting weirdly. Why wouldn’t he do those things for Paganini? The vampire was royal, elegant, composed, and- 

Wait, no, that wasn’t quite right. The vampire was cold, lofty, and sullen, rarely talking to them. But he was royal-looking and feeling, sort of like the queen bee, and there was no way Rimsky would mistake that -

Oh.

Slowly, Rimsky looked down at his own hands, and the feet he was massaging. Then he looked slowly at Rachmaninoff and Beethoven Jr. 

“Yes,” Beethoven Jr. said. “You were doing that.”

Sensing that his plans had been foiled, Paganini lunged for the doorway, but Beethoven Jr. and Rachmaninoff were faster. The conductor grabbed him by the collar and a gust of wind sent him flying back. With a swing of her baton, Beethoven Jr. laid the vamp low and gave him a kick right into Rachmaninoff’s fists. With a single look of mutual agreement, the two began thrashing the vampire brutally. 

“Oh for the love of-” Meanwhile, heat rushed through Rimsky’s face as he remembered everything he’d done in excruciating, painful detail. He’d really done it all! He’d played Paganini’s errand runner, washed his clothes, ironed them, and even massaged his feet. He was never going to live this down, and the worker bee let out a pain sound as his brain played the little videos of his absolute stupidity on repeat.

“You ingrants!” Paganini snarled, and Beethoven Jr. put her fist through his face. “You little-”

“I really don’t think you’re in a position to be arguing with us,” Beethoven Jr. gave him a brutal whack over the head. “What were you thinking?!”

“That was one of the worst things you’ve ever done!” Rachmaninoff swung, hard, fist clipping Paganini’s jaw and sending him reeling backwards to fall right at Rimsky’s feet.

Rimsky looked down coldly. After dealing with both Beethoven Jr. and Rachmaninoff, the vampire looked worse for wear, all those royal airs gone in a flash. The vampire looked weakly up at the worker bee, who stared down with the kind of gaze he usually reserved for Dusts. Rimsky calmly walked over to the desk that took up a corner of Paganini’s room, retrieved the violin case from its spot next to the desk, and pulled out the instrument. Holding it in one hand, he returned over to where Paganini was lying flat on his back, and smiled sweetly.

“Wait, I can explain - AHHHHH!”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in the fandom! Thank you for bearing through Rimsky's (unintended humiliation), Paganini being a prick, Rachmaninoff's protectiveness, and Beethoven Jr. doing what she does best - being a badass.
> 
> Yes, the other fics will involved more suffering.
> 
> Yes, Paganini will be on the receiving end of karma.
> 
> Yes, Rubie. This is entirely your fault.
> 
> I love you :)


End file.
